


It didn't work, John!

by DieLadi



Series: It Works! [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Spanking, boyslove, casefic, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24506926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DieLadi/pseuds/DieLadi
Summary: This story is to be understood as a continuation of the oneshots "Pants", so you should have read it before. It's about how John struggles to teach Sherlock a little bit to understand the social interactions of his fellow men. And Sherlock struggles to learn. ...and in the process, sometimes taking unusual paths.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: It Works! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769353
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Es hat nicht funktioniert, John!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11209749) by [DieLadi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DieLadi/pseuds/DieLadi). 



> (This is a translation of my german story "Es hat nicht funktioniert, John!" which can be found here on AO3.)  
> Pease be aware that english is not my first language.

"It didn't work," Sherlock said, and then he put his lips back on John's lips.  
"What didn't work?" mumbled John.  
Sherlock parted their lips again, but held John in his arms.  
"John," he said slowly, as if he needed to think about what he said.  
"John, I'm a high-functioning sociopath now."  
"Well, I doubt that," growled John. Sherlock went on undaunted.  
"In any case, we both know that I'm not very adept at dealing with social norms."  
"Indeed, Sherlock, indeed."  
"And now it is you who are trying to teach me the norms of social interaction."  
John sighed. It was, and it wasn't an easy job. It's not as if Sherlock didn't try hard enough. He knew trying hard enough was the right thing to make John happy, he understood that.  
And if there was one thing he understood in all the confusion of interpersonal matters that was important to him, it was to make John happy.

"And one of the things you tried to teach me is that certain private things are not to be discussed in public, right?"  
"Yes, that's true, Sherlock."  
"And if I was to judge correctly, would you say that this front staircase in the Holmes-Lestrade house that we're standing on now also falls into the public category, John?"  
"Well, that depends on how private those things are.“  
"Very private. You'd probably describe them as intimate."  
"Then you've got that right. Even the stairs in both our brothers-in-law's house are too public for anything intimate." 

Sherlock turned and went for the door to leave the house.  
John held him back.  
"My dear, let's say goodbye, let's not rush off. I'd also like to thank them for listening.  
"Oh."

Hand in hand they walked up the stairs where Greg and Mycroft were still standing, amusedly following the dispute.  
"Thanks for listening," John said, shaking hands with them both.  
"No problem,“ Greg said, „you're welcome.“  
He smiled.  
"After all, you've brought me a five pound profit."  
Mycroft elbowed his husband in the side, but smiled as well.

So John and Sherlock headed home to 221 B B Baker Street.  
Sherlock was in a hurry. He seemed to want to get out of his system what he had to tell John. Even in the taxi, he was silent, listening to John chatting. Though it was obviously difficult for him.

Once home, they made themselves comfortable on the sofa.  
John insisted on making a pot of tea before they talked. Sherlock did all the work. John was pleased with that.  
Yes, there was no denying that Sherlock was increasingly doing things he thought John would be pleased.  
When the tea was poured, John said:  
"Well, what was it that you wanted to talk to me about?"  
"John, it didn't work."  
"What didn't work? Sherlock, I'm not following you now."

Sherlock took a deep breath.  
"Now, John, I know I was a bit annoying earlier. With my parents, in the restaurant. Teased you in a way that you usually like, but which you felt was inappropriate because of the context."  
John groaned annoyed.  
"Oh, hell, yeah."  
"In a way, I've actually achieved my goal. We left the horrible conversation with my parents and went home where we made love to each other. Well, John, you were a little rough..."  
"Yes, and I'm sorry about that."  
"No, John, don't apologize. There's no need, because I enjoyed it."  
John swallowed. That was new. And it confused him.  
But Sherlock kept talking.  
"Still, I suppose it wasn't enough to allay your anger at me, so you picked up your belt and..."  
He was looking for the right word.  
"...well, I guess you'd put it like this: you spanked my arse." 

John turned bright red with shame.  
"Honestly, Sherlock, I'm really sorry for losing my temper like this."  
"No, John, you're apologising again in the wrong place. Let me explain, okay?"  
John sighed and nodded.  
"Right. So, John, you did this to punish me, right?"  
"Yes..."  
"Good. So... you punish a certain behaviour because you hope that in order to avoid being punished again, the person concerned will avoid the behaviour in question. And this behavioral correction is the desired result. That is logical."  
He looked at John questioningly.  
He nodded again. The way Sherlock explained it, the way he could grasp it, with logic, did not fit in with John's strong feelings about the situation.  
But that was his fiancé.  
"And that's exactly what didn't work," he tore him out of his thoughts.

John shook his head.  
"Sherlock, I still don't understand what you're trying to make me understand."  
"Well, John, that's not what happened. I have been given no incentive to avoid this sort of behaviour in the future. Because I...liked the punishment. Somehow, in a way I don't even understand, it caused me pleasurable erotic sensations."

Now John choked on his tea.  
Okay. He's had to think about that for a while.

"The way I see it, John, there are two problems. One, you're going to have to find some other form of punishment for me if this system of behavioral correction is to be effective."

John didn't bother to explain to him that he had no intention of doing that, that it was a slip that he felt sorry for... He wouldn't understand it, because he had already saved what had happened as a logical sequence of actions, and logic was not something he could do against.

"And the second problem is that I would like to understand it. And therefore I ask you to repeat this thing, so that I can find out what it is that makes me feel these feelings."  
Now John's peace of mind was finally gone. He put the cup on the table, clinking loudly and about to make a protest, when Sherlock's mobile phone rang and prevented him from answering it.


	2. Chapter 2

John was grateful for the mobile phone ringing, because it gave him time to think about this matter.  
"It's Greg! It's a new case, he needs my support! A dead woman in King's Park! Come on, John, we gotta go!"  
And just as he was speaking, Sherlock had thrown his coat over his shoulders.  
"Oh, and John, let's discuss what we were talking about later, shall we? It's important.“  
John nodded. But he was fine with the delay.

They stormed out of the flat and, as usual, Sherlock had found a cab within minutes.  
But as they drove along, they were silent. They were both preoccupied.

Greg was in a bad mood.  
"You’ve hardly left when the call came," he growled. He would actually have had today off and would have preferred to spend the day with his husband and, well, certain pleasant activities. An obviously murdered corpse was not what he had wanted for afternoon tea.

"What have we got?" asked Sherlock.  
Anderson wanted to answer, but Sherlock raised his index finger in his direction.  
"Ah ah," he growled, "if I want a case of incompetence, I'll talk to a butcher about veganism!"  
Anderson made an angry sound, but kept his mouth shut.  
John, however, pushed Sherlock to the side and hissed softly, "Behave yourself."  
Sherlock smiled and whispered back:  
"Well, Anderson's just annoying me with his silliness, it's just off the top of my head, I can't help it. And besides, I've got to give you a reason..."  
John sighed.  
The man drove him crazy again.

Greg took a breath and explained:  
"Elisabeth Snow, 25, accountant. She was found by some joggers out here. Obviously strangled; you can clearly see the marks on her neck. Wearing an antique dress, some kind of costume. And a belt around the waist which is pulled extremely tight. But this was done after death. No other clues."  
John had already knelt down to the body and begun to examine it.  
"Strangled, no doubt," he said.  
"Quite unpleasant. She put up quite a struggle. She has normal clothes under her dress, and that's more than badly put over... I'll bet the killer did that. After she died."  
Sherlock looked at the hair of the dead woman. Something about it caught his eye.  
"It's dyed," he said.  
"Sure," Greg growled. "You can see that. There's nothing natural about that black."  
Sherlock nodded.  
"But look: here the paint has run down the base of the forehead and has tainted a bit of skin...“  
He brushed the hair of the dead woman to one side.  
John looked at him questioningly.  
"Well," he continued, "the lady did not do it herself. No lady would settle for such a sloppy result, otherwise extremely vain like her."  
He showed her hands.  
"Here, the manicure - the finest. I would like to claim the nail salon of Madame Jeannette. I recognize her work. Madame is good and expensive."  
He lifted the dress.  
"Fine designer jeans. Expensive shoes, properly maintained."  
He bent down to the young woman and sniffed.  
"La coeur de la ville, a rather new and fine fragrance. Also expensive."  
He looked up at Greg.  
"The messy dyed hair doesn't go with the overall picture. I'm convinced whoever killed her also did this. After she died, because otherwise she would have fought back."

There was a flash of thought in John. Too short to catch it. Something about this scenario reminded him of something. But he coldn’t hold on to the thought.  
All right, then. Maybe later. Sometimes things come to mind when you stop thinking about them.  
"All right," Greg said, "we'll preserve the evidence and remove the body. If you think of anything else, Sherlock, let me know."  
Sherlock nodded, then took John's hand and walked away from the scene with him.

They went back to Baker Street.  
The tea they had earlier was cold, of course.  
Sherlock immediately agreed to make some more and John gratefully accepted. He felt he'd been drained by the day's blasted activity.  
"I'm sure Greg will let us know if he finds out anything," Sherlock said.  
For a moment he wondered if it would be worth his while to speak to the relatives of the dead. Well, maybe later. Now he thought it would make more sense to retreat to his thought palace and try to somehow relate the strange presentation of the body.  
But before he did that, he turned to John.  
"John, I'm going to start thinking about this dead woman. But later I'd like to discuss our problem further, okay?"  
John nodded resignedly.  
If Sherlock had got something into his head, he couldn't help it in the end anyway.

He took another sip of tea and bit into a piece of tea cake.  
He sighed.  
Yeah, it wasn't easy being with Sherlock. That was obvious.  
But, it was also nice with him, and he was particularly fascinated by the fact that Sherlock seriously tried to submit to the rules of coexistence that "ordinary" and "boring" people followed. He would not succeed in understanding them. Because, in his eyes, they were often not logical. But he tried to follow them anyway, because he knew that he, John, was happy about it.

Greg had bet five pounds that he, John, would be in charge in their relationship.  
And yes, he did.  
Well, Sherlock was brilliant, he was special, he was headstrong. But when it came down to it, in the end, John would have the final say.  
Precisely because Sherlock himself was incapable of reacting in a socially acceptable way on the interpersonal level.  
So Sherlock submitted to John's judgment without hesitation.

John did not like the fact that he had now also discovered the system of punishment and behavioral correction for himself as, in his opinion, an effective way of learning these things. But on the other hand, he knew that once Sherlock had set his mind on something, it was hard to dissuade him.  
So he would have no choice but to think about it.  
He sighed again.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning Greg came in while they were sitting at breakfast.  
He gratefully took a cup of tea. And while John and Sherlock enjoyed fresh rolls with Mrs Hudson's incredibly good homemade strawberry jam, he reported.

"The young woman earned well, working in her father's firm as head accountant and drawing a generous salary. Well, daughter of the boss. She could afford the expensive clothes and perfume.“  
Greg blew on his tea.  
"Madame Jeannette confirmed she came to her house regularly for manicures. Elisabeth Snow was still living at home with her parents. More precisely, her father and stepmother. The neighborhood puts them in good standing, a harmonious family, never quarrels, always doing things together..."  
"Pah, gross," Sherlock said. "I can't stand that much harmony. Most of the time, it's wrong. So I prefer those who don't hide from the world how fallible and broken they are."  
He looked at Greg.  
"No rumors, no hidden scandals?"  
"Well..."  
Greg hesitated.

"Look, Greg, I know you're a decent guy," Sherlock said.  
"Too decent sometimes. In fact, I often wonder how you manage to be such a good cop despite your sometimes girlishly decent manner. But..."  
Greg was about to go on a rampage when he realised that it was actually a compliment!  
A compliment! From Sherlock!  
His eyes got really big, looking up at John, stunned. He was amazed, too.  
Sherlock was making enormous strides.

„... Greg, if you could ever decide to listen to me again: If there's a hidden scandal, you tell me. I need to know everything. Please.“  
Greg swallowed, still dazed by the compliment, and nodded.  
"Well, there's this old lady a few doors down ... sort of a gossip on legs, you know?"  
Sherlock and John nodded.  
"Well, she said there'd been a scandal. The good stepmother isn't quite as well-behaved as she'd like to appear on the surface. If the old lady's right, she's probably having affairs on and off. And the most piquant..."  
Greg, the policeman who had already seen a lot, the man who wasn't too good for any "Fuck!" and the husband who had already fucked his husband in all imaginable and some very surprising ways, had the ability to blush at things that seemed really indecent to him.  
Like now, for example.  
"Well, the last of her lovers is now the fiancé of her murdered stepdaughter. The daughter has stolen him away from her mother."  
Sherlock whistled in his teeth.  
"Well, that's something to start on, isn't it?"  
He took a hearty bite of a croissant, which John noticed with benevolence. Yeah, his eating had got a lot better since he and Sherlock were a thing. And since he actually listened to him. John was quite pleased.  
And then Greg's phone rang.  
"Holmes-Lestrade?“  
…  
"Where?"  
…  
"Yes, I'm coming. I'm bringing Sherlock."  
He looked at his two brothers-in-law, well, John hadn't been official, but now that the date had been set, he was generally referred to.  
"There's been a new body. Back in King's Park."  
Sherlock and John jumped up and rushed into their bedroom, both still in their dressing gowns.  
Three minutes later, they were standing in front of Greg, fully dressed. He had his car with him, so the three of them drove out to the scene together.

Anderson started talking, and there was Sherlock's finger again.  
"Stop! If I want to hear totally unqualified remarks, I'll have a chat with my brother Mycroft about bringing up a kid."  
"Well, um...“ said Greg.  
Sherlock spun around. He looked at Greg. His eyes were getting bigger.  
He was about to open his mouth to say something, when John, who didn't quite understand what was going on, but who suspected disaster, stepped in.  
"Remember Sherlock," he whispered, "private things and public...!"  
Sherlock swallowed the words he was about to say.  
Then he took a deep breath and said:  
"Greg, 8:00 tonight, our house. We need to talk. John's cooking."  
Greg nodded.  
Then Sherlock thought of something.  
He turned to John.  
"Er... are you OK with that?"  
John, who was pleased that he'd thought to ask him, although they would still have to work on the order; in any case, John nodded.

Donovan then explained the discovery of the body. Walkers had discovered her.  
Another old-fashioned dress. Hair dyed black again. No belt this time.  
John had again determined strangulation as the cause of death.  
The young woman's pupils suggested that she had been drugged earlier.  
Her handbag had been found nearby.  
"Jennifer White," lectured by Donovan, "28, regional manager of a cosmetics chain owned by her dad. Another young career woman by the grace of her daddy."  
Sherlock examined her.  
She was also wearing normal clothes under that strange dress. She was also extremely well-groomed.  
Fine clothes, fine shoes, fine cosmetics. Well-groomed nails.  
"Not Madame Jeannette this time. I can't place the work here. Good, no, very good. But not first-class."  
He flipped the dress aside a little.  
"Grass stains. Here, the killer was kneeling on the hem of the dress.“  
He kneeled down the same way and tried to reach out to wherever one could reach from there.  
It had rained after the body was put down. Yet the dress was dry under her legs. but not under her torso.  
Sherlock clasped the upper part of the dead woman's body.  
He raised it. He held it with his left arm. With his right hand he brushed across her hair.  
Her hair, dyed as clumsy as before. Black again.

His hand stopped.  
He had found something in her hair and pulled it out.  
A jewelry comb. The kind you put in your hair. It's a fancy piece with a few tiny diamonds on it. It had been put in so tightly that blood was visible at the ends of the prongs.

"Oh, fuck!" moaned John.  
This time it was he who brought the investigation forward with a discovery.  
"I bet if we find another dead girl, she'll have a piece of a chewed apple in her mouth."


	4. Chapter 4

Everyone stared at John in amazement.  
Sherlock was the first to realise  
"Snow White!"  
John nodded.  
"Of course! John, I'm stunned that you've stumbled onto this and I haven't, but, well, when I was a kid, there weren’t many fairy tales in my life…“  
He faltered for a moment.  
Yes, the father had been determined to train his boys, Mycroft and Sherlock, to be tough. Fairy tales, in his mind, were just effeminate. And the mother hadn't fought back anymore ...  
So fairy tales were one of the areas in which he was not particularly familiar.  
He decided to change that.

Here, however, it was enough to see the connections, now that the keyword had once come up.  
"The black hair. The dress. Good looks. And..."  
Sherlock smiled.  
"...they were both practically princesses. The daughter of the CEO of the company, supported by Daddy..."  
"The names," John said. "Snow and White!"  
"So what's the next one called? Greg, maybe your people should warn young women with names like Dwarves, Hunter, King, Prince... At least those in similar circumstances."  
Greg grabbed his phone and ordered the appropriate action.

No sooner had he hung up than the phone rang. He answered it.  
Listening excited, angry, distraught.  
"Listen, does this body have a piece of apple in its mouth? ... For God's sake, go and see. I'm waiting... Yes... okay. Thanks. We'll be right there."  
"Next?" asked Sherlock.  
Greg nodded.  
His face was grey.  
"And she really does have a piece of apple in her mouth. And her name is Mary Hunter. “

"Greg," said Sherlock, "the stepmother of the first victim. You should interview her. She was suddenly no longer the most beautiful in the country, and the young handsome prince she had smiled at is now engaged to Snow White, who is now sadly dead. Too bad. But it would have been classic if she had tightened her belt too much ..."  
"Oh, Sherlock, if only it were that simple. She's got an alibi. We checked the relatives' alibis from the start. She couldn't have done it."

"Okay," Sherlock said, "I'll think about it. Come on, John, we're going home. And Greg... 8 o’clock!"  
"Yes!"  
He turned and he stomped away with big steps. John ran after him.  
"Sherlock? Are you angry that this time I got the big idea?“  
Sherlock turned.  
He actually thought about it for a moment, to give an honest answer to John, whom he loved so much.  
To his own amazement, he realised that a very different feeling prevailed.  
"No, John. I am proud of you."  
And he kissed John briefly, turned back to the street and walked on to wave a taxi.

A short time later, they were back in Baker Street.  
Sherlock was making tea.  
"John?“  
"Yes?“  
"Are you okay with this?“  
"With what?“  
"Well, I said, I'd like to find out why it didn't work. And I'd like to do it again."  
John swallowed.  
"So you want me to...? You seriously want me to...?"  
"To chastise me with a belt? Yes."  
"Sherlock, you're being crazy. I' … I've already apologised for what I did, and I hope you can forgive me, but..."  
He kept quiet.  
He knew that sooner or later he wouldn't be able to stand up to Sherlock. The man would have way to much arguments against him.  
"So... Sherlock...you really want this?"  
Sherlock nodded.  
"Fine." John made a decision.  
"Then ...I'm going to see how you behave towards Greg and his colleagues tonight and tomorrow. And if you insult me or speak ill of me again, I will punish you. To induce behavior correction. And if that doesn't work, we'll work out a punishment together that might work. Agreed?"

Sherlock nodded.  
The whole thing was again a purely logical sequence of actions for him.  
There was no emotional turmoil or shame or anything. It was more of a study, an experiment.  
John sighed.  
It wasn't easy with his fiancé.  
And yet... he wouldn't have it any other way, wouldn't trade places with anyone in the world.  
He loved Sherlock; he had adventures with him that he had never dared to dream; he felt the danger and felt life pulsing through his veins.  
And that, yes, he also felt that during sex with Sherlock, who was so exciting, so familiar and always new.  
Stunning.  
Yes, that was his relationship with the Consulting Detective.

Well, he would give Sherlock his wish.

He looked over at him. Sherlock seemed lost in his thought palace. Well, he'd probably stay there for hours. He would be inaccessible to everyone and everything until he emerged from there on his own.

Well, thought John, then I'll just dedicate myself to the demands of everyday life.  
And he moved towards the supermarket, armed with a shopping net, to get a few things he needed to bring a decent steak with the right side dishes to the table in the evening.  
Greg would appreciate it.


	5. Chapter 5

At half past seven John shook Sherlock's shoulder.  
Sherlock looked at him with a scowl.  
John knew that he didn't like to be torn from his thoughts, but they were expecting visitors after all, and if Sherlock was allowed to stay in his thought palace, he would probably spend the whole night there. So John decided to get him out of there.  
"Come on, Sherlock," he said, "help me in the kitchen, please."  
Sherlock looked at him like he'd asked him to kiss Anderson.  
He shook his head and closed his eyes.

John shook him again.  
"Sherlock, I expect you to get up right now and join me in the kitchen. We've got company coming over, and I could do with your help."  
Sherlock opened his eyes, looked up at him.  
John put all the strictness at his disposal in his voice and said:  
"Now!"  
Sherlock nodded, rose and came obediently into the kitchen.  
It fascinated John time and again that this man, this incredible, brilliant, stubborn man - bowed to his authority.  
A warm wave of affection flowed through him.  
Sherlock was something special. And he, John, was allowed to love him. And was loved by him. Wow.

In the kitchen, John asked his fiancé to set the table. For four people.  
"Four?" Sherlock asked in surprise.  
"Yes," John said. "I'm quite convinced Mycroft will come. He's not going to throw his beloved Gregory to the lion alone, he's going to join the arena."  
Sherlock laughed, imitating a lion's roar, then went about setting the table.

The bell rang at eight o'clock sharp. So Mycroft had indeed come along. Greg wouldn’t have been so punctual.  
While Sherlock went to the front door to save the guests from the noisy chattering Mrs. Hudson (the good lady was very sweet, but sometimes a bit too much trouble), John turned the steaks over, jolted the roast potatoes, mixed the bacon with the beans, mixed the salad one last time.  
Greg entered the kitchen in a good mood, sniffed towards the stove and grinned contentedly.  
Mycroft looked rather disgruntled.  
It was obvious that Sherlock was bursting with curiosity (he would have called it eargerness to learn himself). But John had inculcated in him: first we eat in peace. Then you may attack them with questions.

The food was delicious. Greg tucked in, he hadn't eaten much more than a donut and lots of coffee all day.  
Mycroft nodded appreciatively as he tasted the first bites. And having established that the good doctor could indeed cook properly, he ate with good appetite.  
Sherlock wasn't hungry, but he ate for John's sake, who had kindly put the smallest steak on his plate.

When John, who enjoyed his role as host, had finally cleared the plates and served espresso, Sherlock looked over at him. John nodded at him.  
And now it burst out of Sherlock:  
"Now what the hell's my brother got to do with raising kids?"  
Mycroft raised his eyebrows.  
Sherlock went on:

"Well, Greg, your reaction to my remark to Anderson was very clear. You are one of the most honest people I know and it was obvious that the subject matter had meaning for you and therefore for my brother. At that moment you involuntarily put your hand in your back pocket. It had your wallet in it.  
So it is certain that there is something in your wallet that matches the topic you mentioned. What could that be? Well, probably a photograph."  
He was watching Greg. Saw his face turn red. Then he nodded.  
"The photo of a child... Yes. And since you are so moved by the subject, it should be clear it's your child. That you have with your ex-wife? ... Yes, it's your ex-wife. So this child is in some way intended to influence my brother's competence in child rearing? The only conclusion is that you intend to take the child with you..."  
He paused.  
Greg turned his face away and swallowed.

Mycroft frowned again.  
"Yes, after Greg's wife had kept his daughter away from him for three years, she's decided that teh girl's in the way of her new marriage and wants to put her in a foster-care."  
He snorted.

"If I didn't keep an eye on the good side, Greg would never have known about this. We're going to fight this and we're going to take Charlotte to live with us. I've called in my best lawyer. Greg's ex doesn't stand a chance."

"Well, Mycroft... are you sure you want to do this? I mean, you and a child..."  
Mycroft sparkled at him.  
So did Greg.  
Then he snapped at Sherlock:  
"Sherlock, I know you can't see this, but Mycroft is one of the most warm-hearted people there is, and he will be a good father to Charlotte!"  
To everyone's surprise, Sherlock nodded. He took John's hand in his and said:  
"Yes. The little one will be fine with you. And what's more, she will have two uncles to look after her and babysit her when her fathers need, well, some time to themselves. and teach her a lot of things that dads don't allow her to do."  
And he smiled the most honest grin he could muster.

"Let’s drink to that," said John. He led the others into the living room in front of the fireplace, got the good scotch from the bar compartment and poured it. They sat together for a while and talked, it felt good. Somehow it felt for the first time like what they were: family.

Later, when John and Sherlock were alone, Sherlock asked somewhat uncertainly:  
"Have... did I do good, John?"  
John looked at him and smiled.  
"The uncles thing, Sherlock, I get the feeling you meant that honestly?"  
"Yes, John. I did."  
He swallowed.  
"Was it wrong to say it like that?"  
John reached down and kissed him.  
"On the contrary, my dear. It was quite wonderful. The best thing you could have said. Besides the little thing that you should have checked with me first... I guess we'll have to discuss the order of things. But since what you said was in line with my thinking, let's leave it at that."  
He kissed Sherlock again.  
Then he sat astride Sherlock's lap.  
"You know, Sherlock," he said, "parallel to the idea that you correct unwanted behaviour by punishing it, there's the other way round."  
"What do you mean, John?"  
"Well, that you encourage desirable behaviour by rewarding it."  
Sherlock licked her lips.  
"And you think you can work both... systems... in parallel?"  
"Yes, Sherlock, depending on the person's particular behaviour."  
Sherlock smiled.  
"And then... how did the person in question currently behave?  
John kissed him again.  
"The person in question has earned a great reward."

And yes, that night, John rewarded Sherlock. Again. And again. And again.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning they both went to the Yard. Greg made all the case files available to them.  
John was sleepy and yawning constantly. That night with Sherlock had been quite a trial for him.  
Sherlock himself was blooming.  
It was always a mystery to John how he did that, because he hadn't slept a minute more than John did.  
Anyway, John was grateful that Greg sent an intern to get some decent coffee at the donut shop around the corner.

Sherlock was lost in the files.  
When the coffee came, he growled at the intern unkindly.  
Anderson came in with the newly typed report on the third body.  
"Well," he started, but Sherlock interrupted him:  
"Listen, Anderson, if I want to hear pointless blather, I'll have a chat with my good doctor, right after sex! He's suffering from post-coital dementia, well, suffering is probably the wrong word."  
Anderson dropped his jaw. He was the last person in the department who didn't realise that John and Sherlock...  
John had jumped up.  
"Sherlock!"  
He was furious.  
About Sherlock's behaviour towards Anderson. And his behaviour towards him. That's an outrageous thing to say. John was so embarrassed, he was bright red.  
"Sherlock," he hissed, "there'll be consequences."

Sherlock was too busy looking after John or anyone else.  
The first Snow White was the key figure.  
It was obvious.  
She was the only one with the stepmother and the handsome prince.  
The other two had just been "King's Daughters".  
The fact that the first one was called "Snow" was certainly a reason that helped to trigger this fairy tale complex in the murderer.  
She was the real target of the murderer. The other two had behaved arrogantly and dismissively towards other people, for example employees, colleagues etc. ... he could see this in the various interrogation protocols.  
That was probably the reason for their death.

No connection between the three had been found yet.  
They had never known each other.  
The only thing they had in common was Madame Jeanette, but only between the first and the third.  
And both had never met there either, one always came on a Monday, the other on a Thursday

He saw the nails of the two before him.  
First-class work.  
Pah, Greg's people might never have found that connection themselves. It's a good thing he had so much on file, so many facts, so unconnected things... Pah.

The nails on the second one.  
They were also well manicured but it was not the work of Madame Jeannette.  
Nor had the young woman known her. At least that's what Madame said.  
He read on.  
Jennifer White had recently been given another area of the city by Daddy to look after. The employees weren't thrilled to have her as a supervisor.  
Wait a minute.  
That area was where Madame Jeannette's business was located.

"Greg?"  
"Yes, Sherlock?"  
"I need to know if the representative of Miss White's daddy's cosmetics company has been ill recently."  
"Oh, just a moment."  
Greg was already on the phone.  
Five minutes later, he got an answer.  
"Flu. Two weeks."  
Sherlock nodded.

"Greg?"  
"Yes?  
"Stepmother of the first victim."  
"Yeah?"  
"Find out if she has manicured nails. Madam Jeannette's nails. I want pictures of her nails on my phone. And her clothes... fashionable, chic, I suppose, but not the latest season’s fashion.  
Maybe a few pieces. The rest... exquisite, but two or three years old?"  
Greg sighed, Sherlock would never lower himself as to tell mere mortals what conclusions he was about to draw...  
At most, maybe he would for John.  
If he asked.  
But John was silent.  
John's eyes flashed.  
He was still angry.  
Understandably so.

Greg sighed again, picked up the phone and sent an officer to get the information he needed.  
It would take half an hour.  
How John put up with Sherlock...  
Well, it wasn’t always easy with Mycroft either.  
Sometimes he had to take stronger measures if he felt he needed to apply his control issues to him.  
But a very silent Greg and a night on the sofa reliably brought the desired result.  
He smiled at the thought of Mycroft eating out of his hand again, only to have Greg talk to him again and to be allowed to come back into the bedroom, and to feel his husband's warm arms wrapped around him as he fell asleep and woke up.  
A warm feeling pervaded him.  
Yes, Mycroft was not easy, but he was still such a kind and loving person. Well, to him. And that was enough.  
Anyway, Greg was happy and grateful for his husband.


	7. Chapter 7

It didn't take long to get the information and photos they wanted.  
It was exactly as Sherlock suspected - no, deduced.  
"Fine," he said, "Greg, send your men to arrest Madame Jeannette."  
"What?!"  
"Just do it. I'll explain it to you."

Greg got back on the phone and did what he had to do.  
"Okay, Sherlock, now tell me."  
"It's obvious!" he shouted, rolling his eyes.  
John's head was about to burst. He'd had enough of Sherlock's attitude.  
"Damn Sherlock. Pull yourself together. It seems that I and the rest of the people here suffer not only from post-coital dementia but from complete dementia, because we cannot follow your train of thought. So descend from the Olympus of your godlike mind to illuminate and share your glory with us mere mortals!"  
You could tell he was boiling with rage.

Now Sherlock saw it too.  
"John... did I hurt you? Oh, I didn't do it on purpose! I didn't know... I mean, everyone knows we're intimate except Anderson, but he's not the standard, and now he knows too, and it's perfectly normal that post-coital thinking is restricted due to reduced blood flow to the brain..."  
"Sherlock!“  
There was a brief silence.  
Then John took a deep breath.  
"Sherlock, you remember... ..intimate things, public...?"  
"Oh...“

Greg stepped in.  
"Well, maybe if you could just postpone your fight, Sherlock could actually explain..."  
Sherlock cleared his throat.  
"The first was the real target. Snow White with stepmother and prince, and the stepmother herself was suddenly no longer the fairest of them all, but the prince had snatched Snow White. And t,he younger woman, annoyingly enough, did not live behind the seven mountains, no, she had her in front of her eyes every day."  
"But it wasn't the stepmother."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes again.  
"This is obv...“  
He stopped himself from saying it.  
"The stepmother was having affairs. The fact that her latest fashion acquisitions are two years old suggests that the husband found out and took away her credit card, revoked her account authorisation over her bank account or something similar. Clear?"  
They nodded.  
"Good. Yet she has nails, obviously manicured by Madame Jeannette. Madame Jeannette is good and expensive. How can she afford it? Without her own money?"  
The others looked at him expectantly.  
"That's right. Not at all. Unless, of course, it was a friendship service. I saw photos in the files of the lady's living room and I was in Madame Jeannette's shop, and don't anybody ask why. So I know that there's a class photo on the wall of both of them. No, no, not the same, they are of different ages, about 3 to 4 years are surely in between, but ... the same school. They will know each other from back then."

"Sherlock licked his lips and went on.  
"She must have gone to her friend's house and had a good cry. About the wickedness of the world, her wicked wicked stepdaughter and her unfaithful prince. And Jeannette decided to avenge her friend. She has mental problems anyway. I mean look at her shop. It's a real eye-opener.  
In her world, everyone else is evil and wants her evil. Her, or in this case her girlfriend. So she decided to take the stepdaughter out of the world so her friend could be happy again. And get back the prince."

He cleared his throat.  
"The other two... ...well, Miss White came to her as a sales rep when the real sales rep was ill. Told too much about herself and acted unkind and arrogant... ...and I guess Jeannette got a taste for it. And the third, Miss Hunter, was not a very kind customer, I guess."

"I hate to admit it, but Sherlock's just good," Greg said.  
"Yes, he is," John said.  
And addressed to Sherlock:  
"You're still an insensitive bastard."  
"I think that's true," Sherlock said. "But, John, thanks to your help and the system of..."  
"Sherlock!"  
"Yes, I know, private details and publicity. So, thanks to you, I'm going to learn to recognise and avoid these...what would you call...blunders in the future. Although it still doesn't seem logical to me, facts that everyone knows, and they're just so true, to keep quiet..."  
"Sherlock!"  
"Yes, yes, all right."  
Sherlock's rolled his eyes again.  
Now John had to laugh.  
"You're impossible, and I can't stop wondering how I can put up with you."  
Sherlock looked John lovingly in the eyes.  
"I wonder about that, too."

Greg's mobile rang.  
"Holmes-Lestrade... ..yes...yes... Blimey... here I come."  
He looked at the others.  
"The bird has flown away. She must have known we'd find out about her. She packed a suitcase and left.“  
An expecting look to Sherlock.  
"What?“  
"Sherlock," Greg said, "somehow I've come to expect you to tell us where she is."  
Sherlock snorted.  
He turned to John.  
"Come on, John, let's go home."  
And to Greg:  
"Keep us informed. Text message. Do not call. The doctor and I will be busy."  
He beamed at his fiancé and took his hand.  
John smiled.


	8. Chapter 8

Back at Baker Street.  
First of all, John made tea. He was still angry with Sherlock. Well, a bit.  
He'd forgiven him, actually. But he didn't need to show him that straight away, so he mumbled a bit more.  
He took the tea into the living room, poured himself a cup. And Sherlock too.  
The man was sitting on the sofa, looking at him expectantly.  
John took a sip of tea.

"Can you explain it to me, John?“  
"Explain what?“  
"Why is it wrong to say something that's actually true? It's true that in the first few minutes after we have sex, which I enjoy very much, but I'm sure you know that…"  
Yeah, of course John knew that. He could feel it. But still, it was the first time Sherlock had said it so clearly. And that was nice. It felt good.  
"...you're not really sane and you're babbling nonsense. I once asked you in a situation like this to tell me what the square root of 25 is. Basic arithmetic. But you just stared at me and mumbled something. Ten minutes later, you were in control again and could answer me correctly."

"Sherlock.“  
"John, and it's not unusual to experience the phenomenon of post-coital dementia... and that we both copulate for pleasure, as our friends and family know, since we're a couple, it's a given..."  
"Sherlock!!!!"

Sherlock stopped talking.  
John didn't know whether to shout angrily or laugh.  
He decided to take the third way and tried to explain.  
"That that well may be. But that's not the point."  
He sighed.  
"There are some things you just don't say, no matter how true they may be, because they hurt. And certainly not in public."  
Sherlock nodded his head, understandably.  
"Intimate things and publicity. Yes, I'm beginning to understand that concept, although I don't quite see the logic behind it either."  
"Sherlock, there is no logic behind everything. Some things, especially in human relations, are not logical."

Sherlock moaned.  
"Yes, John. That's what makes this so complicated for me."  
He looked at John.  
"Nevertheless, I have now come to understand this point - intimate things and publicity. Can we please strengthen it, John?"  
"Strengthen it? What do you think?"  
But in the next moment he knew what Sherlock meant.  
"Well, John, according to the system, punishment for a certain behaviour is an incentive to avoid further punishment, and to avoid the behaviour in question."  
John was silent.  
"That," Sherlock said, "is indeed logical."

John sighed.  
But in a way, he could understand Sherlock.  
If he found individual concepts in all this confusion of interpersonal and social interactions between people who had nothing to do with the logic he was so familiar with, which were logical again, they were his lifeline in all of this. And he clung to such things.  
In the hope that with their help he would find ways not to drown in this ocean of feelings and perhaps find practicable ways to treat his fellow human beings in such a way that he would not always be labeled a freak.

"All right. I will punish you for this insolence. The insolence to Anderson..."  
Sherlock wanted to protest. In his opinion, Anderson was not a creature to be taken into consideration in any way.  
But John just raised his index finger and looked at him sternly.  
And Sherlock didn't speak.  
John was always amazed that it worked.  
That he actually had such authority over Sherlock.  
"And above all, your insolence to me. Because you've embarrassed me a little bit in the process and it's hurt me.“

Sherlock nodded.  
He didn't mean to hurt John. He didn't need any extra incentive for that, now that he knew it hurt him, although he still didn't understand why.  
But if John really wanted him to stop insulting Anderson... well, if a punishment would stop him the next time, that actually made sense.

"Now the only question is what to do with you," John said.  
He pondered for a while.  
Again Sherlock looked at him expectantly.  
John stood up.  
"Well," he said, "we'll just repeat the punishment from the other day. The one you said didn't work. You wanted it anyway, to confirm or not confirm that impression. If this punishment really doesn't work, well, I'll think of something else."  
He kissed Sherlock gently.  
Sherlock nodded.  
Yes, that was good. Then he could immediately mark off another uncertainty as having been clarified.  
He loved to put ambiguities to a definite conclusion.

John pulled the belt from his pants.  
Then he took Sherlock's hand and pulled him behind him into the bedroom.  
A short time later you could hear slapping noises and a painful moaning from the bedroom.  
Again, a short time later, you could still hear slapping sounds and a moan of pleasure.  
The slapping stopped.  
The lustful moaning remained.  
The moaning of pleasure was heard shortly afterwards from two different voices, in different pitches.  
Increased, changed, became more intense, louder, and one of the voices, yes, it was John's voice, then turned into little pointed screams of lust.

Some time had passed.  
Extremely satisfied and disarranged, they both left the bedroom.  
John went into the kitchen to drink a large glass of water.  
Sherlock leaned against him and laid his head on the shoulder of the smaller one.  
"I was right. It's not working."

John turned his head a little and put his cheek to his fiancé's.  
"John," Sherlock continued, and with his following words he made John blow the sipp of water that was just in his mouth across the kitchen shelf, "We should put it in the other category. The parallel system.  
Reward to encourage desirable behavior."


	9. Chapter 9

The bell rang.  
Mrs Hudson opened the door.  
They could hear her talking excitedly.  
"That could be Greg," John said.  
"Come on, Sherlock, we should get some clothes on."  
He was only wearing shorts and a T-shirt at the time. Sherlock was in his dressing gown.  
"No need," said Sherlock, and rushed to the front door when there was a knock on the door seconds later.  
Damn, did John think, why he would not listen to me at a moments like this? I'd better increase my authority.  
Urgently.  
Damn, you can just see we've just had sex.

Greg trotted into the living room. He sat on the couch. Poor guy looked tired and exhausted.  
When his eyes fell on John, and then on Sherlock, he had this meaningful grin.  
John turned bright red.  
Man, he thought. Obviously, I've been very successful in getting Sherlock on to the subject of private life in public. Well, we're working on the subject of 'not everything that's true has to be said'. The subject of non-verbal communication, I could take that up next.  
And I'll be damned; but if punishment and reward can help me make things clear to him and help him understand them, then, by all the saints who one could somehow imagine being responsible for a highly functional sociopath (which I don't think he is), yes, I want to use them.  
And high on complex sentences, thought John, and giggled.

Greg and Sherlock looked at him a little baffled.  
"Oh, um, sorry, I was just thinking about... something funny..."  
John blushed and cleared his throat.  
"I can imagine…" said Greg, grinning cross-eyed.  
John got even redder.

"Greg, what's the state of play?" Sherlock asked.  
He sat down on the sofa, but he came back up hissing.  
Greg grinned even wider.  
Then he got serious.  
"We still don't have her. Anderson's been collecting evidence from the flat. "But we can't..."  
"Pah, Anderson..." Sherlock spat that name out like something disgusting.  
"Well, I was wondering if you could come with me... and you, Sherlock, could have a look around the flat?"  
Sherlock nodded and ran into the bedroom to dress. John ran after him.

Greg had a car waiting downstairs.  
The driver took them back to the flat in no time.  
Sherlock walked around in it.  
"By the way, John, I'm not sure which saint would be responsible for me, given that the whole concept of Christianity and other religions..."  
"Yes, all right, Sherlock," John interrupted him, not in the mood for a lecture.  
Then he realised what Sherlock had said.  
"How the hell do you know what I was thinking?"

"Well, John, I don't know everything you were thinking. But you looked at the medallion with the picture of St Panteleimon hanging on the cupboard in the living room. Why you put it there and never wear it, I could tell you, but let's not go there. It's the patron saint of doctors, and therefore yours. Then you looked at me, first with a thoughtful, questioning look and then with that look you always have when someone, or even I myself, calls me a highly functional sociopath. So it was clear that you were wondering which saint would be responsible for me in that capacity."

Anderson, who was standing in the background, pissed off that his boss had called in the crazy guy again, growled:  
"Well, if you ask me, St. Aegidius."  
John shrugged his shoulders.  
Then he took out his smartphone and googled  
He blushed with rage.  
"What is it?" Greg asked.  
"Responsible for mental illness," John barked at Anderson.  
The man grinned.  
Sherlock, who overheard everything, closed his eyes for a moment but kept quiet.  
No, today he would not insult him. He decided to come up with a few carefully chosen insults that Anderson would not object to, so John would probably not be able to react angrily either. And he had an idea.

But now John surprised him.  
"Anderson, beware that Saint Stanislas does not become your patron saint very quickly. ...because he's the one responsible for broken limbs."  
Anderson swallowed.  
Then he turned angrily and left the room.

Sherlock had by now seen important details, taken in himself and put them together to form a picture.  
The open wardrobe. Missing summer clothes. Now in November.  
Okay. Southern hemisphere, near the equator, maybe. Flight, clearly.  
Confirmed by a plane carelessly scribbled on a Post-it next to the laptop.  
Lady was in a hurry.  
The laptop.  
They'd probably find all the data there in no time at all.  
And they needed him for this?  
Oh, man.

"Greg? She booked a flight. When you go to her laptop, you'll probably find a link to the airline and the booking data right on the desktop. She was in such a hurry, she didn't take the time to hide anything."  
"Oh, yeah?" Anderson. He had thought he just took off.  
"How are we supposed to crack the password that easily?  
"Well, just enter the most obvious. S-n-o-w-w-h-i-t-e."  
Greg sat down at the laptop and actually.  
He did a quick search, and he found quickly.  
He studied the data, looked at the clock.  
Grabbed his cell phone.  
Sent people to the airport at Heathrow.  
Ran off on his own.  
"Flight to Ecuador leaves in half an hour. We'll still catch it. And then I can finally get back to..." And out the door he went.


	10. Chapter 10

"Shall we go after them?" John asked.  
"Well, that's Greg's job now."  
Sherlock leaned in and kissed John.  
"Yes," nagged Anderson, still pacing the flat with his forensic stuff, looking suspiciously at him.  
"Better let the professionals do their job now. You amateurs. That freak's nothing but trouble."

John cooked.  
Sherlock's eyes sparkled. He put a reassuring hand on John's arm.  
Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a small screw-top glass. Inside was a... a crawly critter with antennae...  
Why does he have something like that in his coat pocket, John thought. Oh, damn it, I don't want to know.  
"Well, Anderson," said Sherlock, "do you know what that is?"  
Anderson looked distraught.  
"A...cockroach?"  
"Right."  
Sherlock looked at the glass, but then looked at Anderson's face.  
"And you know what? Why would I engage in a conversation with a cockroach when I have a perfectly competent and capable consultant and friend by my side, like our good Dr. John Watson?"

Anderson gasped for breath.  
John had a coughing fit.  
It was a fake coughing attack designed to hide a laugh.  
Sherlock was unbeatable.  
Lovely.  
An insult without actually being insulting.  
John gasped.  
And was very much amused.  
He was also immensely happy to receive the compliment of his sweetheart.

"Come on," said Sherlock, "Let's go home, John. Here our job is done and now we've got time for ourselves."  
Taxi. To Baker Street. Make some tea there first. It was becoming a ritual. So was Sherlock making the tea.  
"Thank you," John said, as his fiancé put the cup in his hand.  
He took the first sip and his mobile was vibrating.  
Greg.  
Just a quick message.  
"Got her."  
Sherlock's phone was vibrating, too.  
"Oh," he said, amazed. "Mycroft thanks me. ..for solving this case so quickly."  
He looked at John.  
"John, why is Mycroft saying thank you? He had nothing to do with the case... oh."  
John smiled.  
"That's right, Sherlock. Now that the case is solved, Greg will have time for him again. They'll make up for what they missed out on his interrupted day off."  
Anyone else would have been smirking knowing that. Or smiled in amusement. Or something like that.  
Anyone.  
But not Sherlock.  
Sherlock looked at John and said:  
"You mean, wild, uninhibited sex? The kind we have?"  
And again, John choked on his drink, this time tea.  
"Yes, Sherlock, that's it, that's the point."

"John? Now that he's solved the case, we've got time for wil..."  
"Yes, Sherlock! Just let me finish my tea first, okay?"  
"Yes, John. Well, actually, there's something I'd like to talk to you about first anyway. It's about what you're trying to teach me, John.“  
He looked at his fiancé.  
"Well?" he asked.  
"John, you must explain something to me. Something that, once again, I do not understand. John, you're so well versed in all this interpersonal stuff. You know so well that you never do anything wrong."  
John wanted to protest. Sherlock got that wrong. That he would never do anything wrong... well, there were enough people who thought otherwise...  
But Sherlock wouldn't let him speak out.  
"You threatened to break Anderson's bones. I insulted him. What exactly is the difference between my behaviour being worthy of correction and yours not?"  
John sighed.  
"Oh, Sherlock. In my defence, you might say you insulted Anderson because you think he's awful, so for completely selfish reasons. I, on the other hand, was defending you with my threat, so I was acting altruistically. ...but it's wrong. My behavior was just as worthy of correction."  
"Selfish... selfless... yes, I can find logic in that. Only that your behaviour is wrong again, even though you were selfless, I don't understand."  
He kissed John gently.  
"Oh, Sherlock, I know it's complicated."  
He kissed back.  
"But you know, my dear, you're making great progress. I'm proud of you."  
They snuggled up against each other.  
It was astonishing, always astonishing, how much this man, who until not so long ago claimed to know no feelings, enjoyed caresses with his fiancé.

"John?"  
"Yes, Sherlock?"  
"Have you thought about some other punishment for me? One that works?“  
John sighed.  
"Listen, my love. Since you've obviously found this system of punishment to be logical, and therefore effective, in your learning process, and I don't seem to have a chance of talking you out of it..."  
He looked at Sherlock questioningly.  
The man shook his head vigorously.  
"...we're going to start from scratch. I'm not going to punish you for general misconduct, because that would be unfair, precisely because you can't see through all the tricks and all the pitfalls. No, I will make very specific demands. And punish you if you break them. Okay?"  
Sherlock nodded.  
"Right. So your first instructions are no conscious insults. No conscious insults, not even against Anderson. Understood?"  
Sherlock nodded.  
"And as punishment, I'm giving you one week of doing the shopping."  
Sherlock looked at him in horror.  
"But John, I never shop."  
"That's just it, dear. I might as well combine your correction with a little bit of convenience for me. Aren't I a clever guy?“  
Sherlock smiled.  
"Indeed you are, John. It's a real incentive to avoid punishment and the behaviour that leads to it. I hate shopping!"  
John smiled.

"And, Sherlock, now, as for the second system, rewards for encouraging behaviour, believe me, rewards will be far more generous. I'll be throwing them right at you."  
"Well, John, I must admit I'm glad to hear that."  
"And I think that for the compliment you paid me today in such an impressive way... Say, Sherlock, where did you get that cockroach, anyway? And more importantly, where is it now?"  
"That, my dear John Watson, is not what you want to know. Believe me."  
John shuddered.  
"Very well, Sherlock. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the compliment. I think I'll start the rewards right now."  
Sherlock looked at him in love.

Then he grabbed John, threw him over his shoulder and walked towards the bedroom.  
John protested, but Sherlock said  
"It's true you wear the pants in our house, John, and we want to keep it that way, because it's good. But today I'd like to see this situation change and we both end up without pants. And, by the way, I'd like to extend the same courtesy to the rest of our clothes."  
And then he threw Laughing John on the bed.

They kissed, it got wild and stormy.  
"Mmmmhh," purred Sherlock.  
"With rewards like this, I'll compliment you far more often..."  
Suddenly he sat up and looked at John with surprise and delight and wide eyes.  
"You see, John... it works!!!"


End file.
